All the same her faith in herself was not shaken. It was weak to have these qualms. Mame Durrance was Mame Durrance if she hailed from Cowbarn, Iowa, and Abe Lincoln was Abe Lincoln even if he was raised in the wilds of Kentucky.
She crimsoned with mortification, but took herself vigorously in hand. “What’ll I do now I’ve landed? What do you suppose I’ll do?”
“Knock us endways, I expect.”
“That’d be too easy, I guess—with some of you.”
Mr. Digby Judson was by way of being a human washout but he liked this power of repartee. Few were the things he admired, but foremost among them was what he called “vim.” This amusing spitfire certainly had her share of that.
“You think I’m a little hick.” It is difficult to be wise when your temper breaks a string. “But I ain’t. Leastways I ain’t goin’ to be always. With European experience I’ll improve some.”
“Ye-es, I daresay.”
The dry composure of the editor’s voice caused Mame to see red. “I’m over here to pull the big stuff. An’ don’t forget it.”
Mr. Digby Judson found it hard to conceal his amusement. He gave his moustache a twirl and said patronisingly: “Well, Miss Du Rance, what can we do for you in the meantime?”
“Help me to a few dollars.”